


Slaughtered

by Lamport



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, The Walking Dead AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:55:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4656915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamport/pseuds/Lamport
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m looking for the butcher?”</p><p>He holds up one hand and squints at her, sucking at his teeth, appraising her with glassy eyes.  She tugs at the sleeves of her cardigan, wishing to God she didn’t have to wear the damn thing in the middle of August.</p><p>“Well sugar, you found him.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An alternate meeting

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted on Nine Lives as part of AU month. It is dedicated to the lovely wndrw8 whose AU fics are so incredibly inspiring. You are so talented and kind. Thanks for all your encouragement.
> 
> Thanks to stephtron312 for the beta and to NotLaura for bouncing ideas around and reassuring me this idea wasn't complete crap.

She’s sure she’s lost when the road turns from pavement to gravel to dirt.  Nearly gets stuck trying to turn around, branches scraping at the paint on the sides of the station wagon and whipping at her face through the open window.   That’s just great,  she thinks.  One more reason to give him.  One more. 

 

When she’s back on the main road she turned from she swipes angrily at the wetness on her face, readjusts her sunglasses and pulls over to take a closer look at Ed’s scrawled directions.  He only gave her an hour and a half to run this disgusting errand, and time is almost up.  She needs to find a phone to call him and explain or she’ll pay for it tonight when she gets back to Gainesville.  He’ll yell and tell her how useless she is, but maybe he won’t lay his hands on her.

 

Ordinarily she  would try and prolong a drive in the country, but the putrid smell from the back of the vehicle turns her stomach.  Twice she’s pulled over to heave at the side of the road.  

 

Just when she’s ready to turn around completely and head home she catches the road sign practically invisible beneath the kudzu growing over it.   Dahlonega Meat Processing .  She’s driven past it three times already.  Ed’s right.  She really is blind.

 

The road turns to dirt once again as she enters the treeline, electrical wires buzzing overhead in the heat.  She slows to take the winding curves, trees choking the narrow lane.  After a few minutes the trees give way to patches of tall yellow grass growing up through the remains of a rusted truck missing its doors.  Beer cans litter the road.  A confederate flag is nailed to the side of a greying shed.  She ignores the voice in her head telling her to leave.

 

The building itself is not what she expected.  Nothing more than a crooked brown double wide trailer on crumbling cinder blocks, with a set of wooden steps leading to a screen door.  Smoke billows from somewhere out back.  She pulls up beside a red pickup and a motorcycle parked in front and hops out of the car, desperate for some fresh air. 

 

It’s quiet.  She shoulders her purse and shuts the door, wincing at how loud it sounds, waiting for the rebuff that doesn’t come because he’s not here.

 

“You lost?”   

 

She flinches, whirling around at the voice that grates the air.  She peeks around the side of the truck and sees an old yellowed camper trailer with a torn awning.  A man sits on a woven lawn chair with a beer can in his hand, glaring at her. 

 

“Sorry?” She’s not sure if she’s apologizing for being there or asking a question.

 

“You lost?” he says again.  She can hear the agitation in his voice, the rumble of a pack-a-day habit, and the stink of a man sweating through his hangover.  Even though she’s never met this man before, she  knows him.

 

“I’m looking for the butcher?”

 

He holds up one hand and squints at her, sucking at his teeth, appraising her with glassy eyes.  She tugs at the sleeves of her cardigan, wishing to God she didn’t have to wear the damn thing in the middle of August. 

 

“Well sugar, you found him,” he gestures vaguely to the double wide and turns his attention from her to the styrofoam cooler beside his chair.  “Go on in.”  

 

She recognizes dismissal when she sees it. 

 

* * *

The inside of the trailer looks about as depressing as the outside.  A raised counter with a metal cash register sits near the front door, papers scattered everywhere.  Fly paper hangs in strips from the florescent light fixture, heavy with dead insects.  Glass-eyed deer heads line the walls, their dusty antlers touching the low ceiling.  A saggy love seat is squashed in one corner, behind a coffee table barely holding up under the weight of hunting magazines with curled pages. 

 

All that is nothing compared to the smell of blood and smoke that permeates the air.  It’s so thick she can almost taste it - metalic at the back of her nose and throat.  She swallows hard against the bile churning in her stomach and looks around.  The place is empty, but she can hear the faint sound of a radio out back over the buzz of the flies.

 

“Hello?”

 

This is no good.  She’s just about to pick up the phone sitting on the counter, call Ed, and leave, when she hears heavy footsteps heading her way.

 

A man emerges from a doorway behind the counter, broad shouldered and wearing a filthy apron - a younger version of the man outside.  Brothers?  They have the same accusation in their eyes.  He looks her over suspiciously and his gaze falls to her hand still hovering over the phone.  She’s done the wrong thing already and she hasn’t even spoken yet. 

 

“Sorry.  I just… really need to use the phone,” she shakes her head, looking to the cracked floor tiles at her feet.

 

“You lost?”

 

She almost laughs at the identical intonation of the question.  In a lot of ways she is lost, but that’s not what they’re asking.

 

“I don’t think so.  Are you the butcher?”

 

He nods.

 

“My husband sent me.  There’s a deer in the back of my car he wants cleaned and processed.”

 

He rubs a hand over his chin thoughtfully.

 

“You got tags?”

 

“Sorry?”

 

He lets out a huff.  She really is stupid. 

 

“Tags.  For the  deer . You can’t just up and kill an animal whenever you feel like it.  You need a tag, else it’s illegal.”

 

She blinks.  Ed never mentioned anything about a tag.  Then again, he sent her out to the sticks to get it butchered, so she’s not exactly surprised.

 

“I don’t have one.”

 

For the first time she notices a grimy certificate in a glass frame on the wall.   Daryl Dixon: certified meat cutter .

 

“Lady, if you ain’t got the tags there ain’t nothin I can do for you.”

 

A wave of nausea hits her at the thought of driving that dead thing back home, of Ed bellowing at her for screwing up.  Again. 

 

“Please? I can pay you cash under the table.  You can burn the damn thing for all I care, so long as I don’t have to smell it anymore.”

 

He regards her coolly, his mouth set in a firm line, hands tucked under his armpits.  There’s no fight left in her - not that there was much to begin with.  She flushes when she registers the tears forming, and takes a deep breath through her mouth to push them away.  Every little thing these days makes her cry.  

 

“Can I at least use your phone?”

 

He scratches his ear and mumbles something under his breath. “Alright.  I’ll take a look.  Make your call.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

* * *

He doesn’t know who Merle’s been giving his name too, but it seems like all the white trash shit hunters in Georgia have been coming by lately.  They pull up to the shop with their kill splayed on the hood, speeding through the woods half-lit and full of piss over the thrill of taking a life.  Daryl can’t complain though.  There’s a long winter coming soon and they pay well.  It’s unusual for them to send their wives.  

 

This one looks like she’s going to hurl or cry any second.  She’s a tiny thing, hunched over the counter with hair falling in her face, cradling the receiver while she dials.  He senses weakness in her, in the way she phrases everything like a question.  It makes him nervous, like her meekness will rub off on him if he stays with her too long.  This is no place for her. 

 

It’s not hard to find her vehicle outside, and not just because it’s the only one that doesn’t belong to him or Merle; he can smell it the minute he pushes through the screen door and steps outside.

 

“Fuck,” he mutters, walking around to the hatch at the back and opening it wide.

 

Inside is a fawn, barely out of its spots, tongue lolling out onto the tarp it’s lying on.  He assesses the carcass with a critical eye, noting the multiple bullet holes through its flank, chest and throat.  Bowels are ruptured.  Fucker didn’t even kill the damn thing clean.   He’ll be lucky to get enough meat for one burger out of it.  It looks so god damned  used  it makes his blood boil.

 

“Merle!”

 

“What?!”

 

“Get your ass over here!”

 

He’s pacing behind the car when his brother saunters over, tipping back the last of his beer and tossing the can on the gravel. 

 

“I’ll take the front, you get the back.”

 

Merle takes one look at the deer and chuckles.  

 

“Looks like some asshole had a grand ole time.”

 

Of course he thinks it’s funny.  Merle always takes perverse pleasure out of suffering. 

 

“You can’t lift this itty bitty thing yourself, little brother?  It don’t weigh no more than a six pack.”

 

“Guts leaking.  Don’t wanna get covered in shit if it’s all the same to you.”

 

Merle laughs again, phlegm catching at the back of his throat and sending him into a coughing fit.  But he picks up the deer, and despite his comments, is more than a little out of breath by the time they get to the back of the shop.  Daryl tosses it down on the floor with a huff.  This lady is going to get a piece of his mind. 

 

“Who pissed in your cornflakes this morning?”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

“Why, you’re  welcome, Darlyina.” 

 

 

* * *

 

The woman is still on the phone when he stomps back to the front, ready to tell her to get back in her car and fuck off back to her chickenshit husband.  He loses a bit of steam when he sees her shoulders shaking.  She’s nodding her head like whoever she’s talking to can see her.

 

“I know,” she says, voice wavering. When she looks up and finds him staring from the doorway she straightens up and grips the phone harder.

 

“He’s back. I have to go.  Be home soon… yes, I promise.”

 

She puts the receiver back on the cradle like it’s made of glass and presses her lips together nervously, waiting for him to speak.  She’s so fucking timid.  She doesn’t belong here. 

 

“That your husband?”

 

She nods.

 

“He do that?”  He gestures to the car out front, but she starts and pulls at the sleeves of her sweater.  

 

She nods again once she sees where he’s pointing.

 

“He’s a real piece of work.”  Daryl can’t hide the anger behind his words, even though it seems to make her shrink before his eyes.

 

“Ain’t got no tags cause that deer ain’t legal.  Pfft.  It’s practically a baby.  I should call the damn sheriff and have him press charges.”

 

He doesn’t mean it.  The last thing they need is the lawmen sniffing around the place, and it’s not the first illegal job he’s done, but she doesn’t know that. Before he can say more she’s crying and reaching out to touch his arm, apologies and pleas falling from her lips in a steady stream.  Her blue eyes red and wide.  It strikes him that she must do this a lot, making excuses for a man who doesn’t have the balls to drop his kill off himself.  

 

He flinches and shakes his head, moving to put the counter between them.  He didn’t ask for this today.  Merle’s got “business” to conduct in less than an hour.  He’s got enough shit to deal with without some blubbering lady crying to him about  her problems.  He holds up a hand.

 

“Stop.”

 

Miraculously, she does.  He rummages through the papers on the counter and finds a pen. 

 

“What’s your name?”

 

She looks suspicious, but all he has to do is raise his eyebrows and she’s talking.

 

“Carol - Carol Peletier.”

 

He scratches his head.

 

“Gonna have to get you to write that down.  Your number too.”

 

“What are you going to do?”

 

He runs a hand down his face.  It’s fucking hot.  He wants a cold beer and a bike ride, but that isn’t happening any time soon.

 

“I’m gonna do my  job and call you when it’s ready for pick up.  Can’t guarantee much meat out of that thing.  We charge by the pound - 75 cents.  Plus I gotta skin it and cut around all the fuckin bullet holes.  That’s gonna cost you extra.”

 

She nods emphatically. 

 

“Yes, of course. How much?”

 

He takes in the state of her clothes, the wear of her sandals, the tiny gold cross at her throat. 

 

“Fifty bucks.  Cash.”

 

She exhales hard, clearly relieved, and starts digging for her wallet.

 

“That’s fine.  Thank you so much…  Daryl?”

 

He doesn’t like how it sounds, squeaking out her mouth like that.

 

“Yeah. That’s me.  Put your damn purse away.  You don’t gotta pay me till you come back.”

 

“ Thank you.”

  
He doesn’t know how to respond to that and never has, so he tacks her name and number to the wall with a pin and heads out back, leaving her alone with the deer heads.  Breathing comes easier once he lights a cigarette and hears her tires on the gravel, driving away in the dusk.     


 

 


	2. The Plot Thickens

“Don’t get your panties in a twist.  I’ll be back in a few days.  You hold down the fort and if anyone comes sniffing around, you know what to do.”

 

Daryl sighs, and takes a drag from his cigarette, staring at the small fire they’ve got going.  It was too damn hot to cook inside.  If he’s being honest, he’s still too worked up over that fawn to stay cooped up inside with it a second longer.  Listening to Merle’s new plan is making him feel just as caged in even though the night sky is black and endless overhead.

 

Merle sits beside him on the tailgate nursing another beer - loose and chatty from the joint he smoked for dinner.  Daryl has never known a person who likes to hear himself talk as much as his big brother. 

“I don’t like it,” he mutters, lying back on the cool metal and looking up at the moon.

Merle chuckles, hopping down on shaky legs and laughing at his own instability, or Daryl’s concern, or both.

 

“You gotta start thinking big picture, brother.  There’s a whole lot of money out there that’s ours for the taking...if you’ve got the balls.”

 

“Seems risky is all.”

 

Merle swats at a mosquito on his neck that is more than likely imaginary and tosses his can into the fire with a belch.  

 

“You gotta risk big to win big.”

 

He wants to remind Merle that his mouth makes checks his ass can’t cash, but it’s no use.  Though his gut feels tight at the thought of this risky scheme he’s never been able to talk Merle out of doing what Merle wants to do.   Persuasion has never been one of his strengths.  

 

Merle hops back up on the tailgate a moment later, and a cold beer lands next to his ear with a clang.

 

“We’ll be set.  Get out of this shithole.  Take off someplace where the booze is flowin and there’s pussy far as the eye can see.  Maybe even get you some.”

 

The barb is too obvious.  He’s too worn out to be baited and riled.  He sits up and cracks the beer open, fingers still smelling of blood when he brings the can to his lips.  

 

Daryl has learned the hard way that people don’t change.  As Merle goes on, and on, all he can picture is trying to keep him out of trouble on a beach instead of in the woods.  There’s no truth to the yarns his brother spins; the fantasy life he dreams up for them.  

 

He’s never left Georgia, and he never will.

 

* * *

 

A few days later when Carol puts the car into park she can’t remember how she got home from the doctor’s, but she’s sitting in her driveway nonetheless.  Ed tells her that she doesn’t pay enough attention when she drives.  That’s why she hits curbs and bumps into the mailbox at the end of the drive all the time.  She’s careless.  Stupid.  And her carelessness is dangerous.  There is proof enough of that.

 

She glances in the side-view mirror and is relieved to see that the mailbox and the garbage bin are still upright.  The radio is on, with the engine off - wasting the battery.  A sad song fills the air.  She looks down at her seatbelt, at the center of her body, feels her throat closing off.  And it’s not right. Not fair.  It’s barely the size of an olive, but it’s holding her down, pinning her to her seat.

 

All she could think when the doctor confirmed her fear, surrounded by posters of happy families, was how wide she should smile to pass the tears off as happy ones.  How much longer she had to sit and listen to the rehearsed speech about ultrasounds and vitamins and the benefits of breastfeeding, before she could leave (Calmly. No rushing even though the walls were closing in).

 

There was hope for her once, but now the tethers are taut and merciless, cutting her.  This is my life now, she thinks.  

 

She grips the steering wheel until her knuckles turn white, and takes a deep breath before falling apart completely.   

 

* * *

 

It’s quiet at the shop for a couple of days, and not just because Merle isn’t there with his constant noise.  Daryl leaves the radio off.  Hunting season for big game hasn’t started in earnest and the few small jobs he has - rabbits and grouse mostly - take almost no time at all.

 

He hasn’t heard a word from his brother, and it’s more than a little unnerving.  He tries to shake himself out of it.  The cool shadows of the woods call him when the sun is high and the shitty pedestal fan cuts out for the last time while he’s washing up.  

 

He leaves his daddy’s rifle under his bed, preferring the weight of his crossbow at his back as he falls into the familiar embrace of the leaves and the trees.  There’s nothing artificial out here - no buzz from the freezer, no daydreams, no bullshit.  He tunes in to the life all around him, the ants at the sap on the tree bark to his left, the fresh gust of air against his bare shoulder that belies the spring to the north, the frantic scratch of squirrels fleeing at his approach.   

 

It’s easier than breathing to put a bolt through two of them, snap their necks, and carry them back on his belt.  All the while he thinks of his brother and hates himself for it.  He can guarantee that Merle isn’t thinking of him.  Merle’s parole officer will be there any day to check in.  A home visit to confirm that he’s been a good boy, has a steady job, is living his life on the straight and lawful path.  He hopes Merle is remembering to call every day like he’s supposed to.  

 

He hikes back to the main road, covered in sweat and cursing himself for not bringing any water.  The mailbox they share is so hot to the touch he nearly burns his hand on the padlock.  There’s one wilted yellow envelope inside with the state crest on it.  He squints at the glare coming off the pristine white paper.

 

The health inspector is coming in three weeks.

 

One more mess he has to clean up for both of them, alone.

 

“Well, ain’t that just fuckin peachy.”

 

* * *

 

Carol misses the blinking light on the answering machine for two days, according to the automated voice that blares out at her when she finally checks the messages.  She’s slipping.  Drifting in and out of rooms, forgetting to empty the dishwasher, barely tasting the few bites of the casserole she makes for dinner.  At least she didn’t burn it.  Ed doesn’t notice - just hands her his empty bottle in a wordless command for another beer.

 

He’s in the den watching a football game now, letting her settle in her fog.

 

“It’s Daryl - from Dahlonega Meats.  Your deer is ready.”

 

The call ends abruptly, like he was already hanging up before he finished his last sentence.  She can hear the disgust in his voice plain as day.  She doesn’t want to go back there, to the stink and the sneers.  

 

“That the butcher?” Ed barks from down the hall over the blare of the television.  She jumps.

 

“Yeah.”

 

She thinks of that winding road, the hills where the roads banked off into blue sky just beyond the guardrails.  The silence and the stillness.  She could just let go of the wheel.

 

* * *

 

He’s in the middle of sharpening his buck knife when he hears the bikes.  For a second he thinks it’s Merle, but there are too many, and the engines don’t sound the same.  Adrenaline kicks in when he glances out the slats of the window beside the front desk and sees three men he doesn’t recognize, covered in club patches and SS tattoos, dismount.  He could make a break for it out the back door, but the chances that they’ve already seen the smoke from his shed are pretty good. They know someone’s here.

 

He tucks the knife safely at his back and picks up a random paper by the till and pretends to read it while his heart pounds.  _Quit being such a pussy_ _._   

 

Merle ran with all kinds in prison, he knows that.  Skinheads weren’t ideal bunkmates, but as his brother said often enough, beggars can’t be choosers especially in a cell.  They protected him on the inside.  Kept the worst of them off his ass - but that kind of protection comes at a price.    

 

These dudes could be friends or foes.  Daryl just wish he knew which.

 

The bald one with the long red beard and moustache comes in first, boots clomping on the tile floor, followed by the other two, one young guy in red and one old guy with a gut.  Yosemite Sam’s vest sticks out a little too far from his body for Daryl’s liking - he’s definitely carrying.  He removes his sunglasses and looks around at the deer heads before turning his eyes on Daryl.

 

“You Merle’s brother?”

 

“Who’s askin?”

 

Yosemite smiles at Skipper and Gilligan.  They smile back and the exchange has Daryl’s fingers twitching behind the counter.  

 

“It ain’t polite to answer a question with a question, but seeing as how me and Merle go way back, I’ll give you one.  Name’s Ginger.”

 

“Daryl.”

 

“Merle’s told me all about you.”

 

Gilligan knocks a pile of magazines from the coffee table to the floor with his knee.  Skipper sits heavily on the arm of the couch, and it groans under his bulk. The further they settle in the room the more he wants to roust them out.

 

“That right? Cause he ain’t said fuck-all about you.”

 

Ginger laughs, but his eyes go dark.

 

“Where is he - your brother?”

 

“Don’t know.  Not his keeper.”

 

Ginger leans closer and looks around.

 

“Word is he’s staying here.”

 

“Like I said, man. I don’t know.  Want me to say it slower?”

 

Before he can blink his head is slammed on the counter.  It happens so quickly he doesn’t even have a chance to go for his knife.  Ginger holds his head down, and his beard scratches his ear.

 

“Now, now.  No need to be rude.  You’re gonna tell me where Merle is, and you’re gonna make it quick cause I ain’t got all day.”

 

* * *

 

In the end she’s a coward, like he tells her, and she can’t make herself end it.  Carol hates her weakness, but it is familiar and she knows how to live with it.  Besides, when she turns off the main road past the sign she swears she feels the flutter of a heartbeat that isn’t her own.  There’s a life growing inside her, and the thought of snuffing it out is just...  

 

She can’t.

 

There are three bikes instead of one when she reaches the shop.  It doesn’t occur to her that they could spell trouble.  She peers around the truck, but there’s no one in the lawn chair, and the cooler is gone.  

 

She climbs the cooked stairs in a daze and doesn’t register the low voices and scuffling on the other side of the screen door.  Then she’s in the thick of it.

 

The butcher, Daryl - that was his name, is behind the till, still covered in paper.  He’s bleeding from a gash on his forehead with his jaw clenched, and a rough looking man with a beard stands next to him.  Two more men flank the door.  They have guns.  She can see the light glinting off them.

 

The heat is making her lightheaded, and for a heartbeat she thinks she might pass out.

“Afternoon ma’am,” says the man with the beard.  He takes a step closer to Daryl, and he stands a little straighter. “What can we do for you?”

 

She glances at Daryl.  His eyes flit to the door behind her.  She takes a step back, but an arm comes out to stop her.

 

“Where you goin? You got business with my man here?”

 

She nods.  Presses her lips together and clears her throat to speak.

 

“I’m here to pick up my order.”

 

He shoves Daryl forward with a hand to his shoulder.  Daryl shrugs him off.

 

“You heard the lady. Go get it.”

 

* * *

 

It’s her.  The mouse.  Standing there with her mouth gaping like a fish caught in a net.  Of all the shitty timing...

 

He can’t go in the back and leave her with them.  It’s clear as day that these men are bad people, and the fresh bruise she’s sporting on her cheek tells him she can’t protect herself.  There’s no telling what they’ll say to a woman this far out in the middle of nowhere - or what they’ll do to her.  

 

“C’mon,” he calls to her, nodding towards the back.  He lifts the corner of his apron to hold against his bleeding forehead.

 

A few beats pass, but she moves her feet and thankfully Skipper and Gilligan don’t lift a hand to stop her.  Ginger doesn’t seem to like it, but fuck him.

 

As soon as they turn the corner at the end of the narrow hallway and reach the deep freezer she starts to shake, eyes full of fear and worry.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

He stops short of putting a hand over her mouth.  He wants to scream at her.

 

Instead he brings a finger to his lips and glares at her.

 

She stands still, mouth shut, wringing her hands while he reaches into the freezer and grabs the first package wrapped in brown paper he lays his hands on.  He grabs a marker from the shelf overhead full of twine and tags, and writes right on fake wood wall panel,  _Don’t call the cops_.

 

She nods, and takes the package from his hands, brushing his fingers with hers.

 

“You’re all set.  See ya,” he says loudly, squeezing past her to be the first to face their company.

 

Before he can make sure the path to the door is clear for her, the screen door opens and Merle walks in.  He looks for Daryl first and then scans the room, taking everything in.  They lock eyes for a second before he can see Merle preparing to turn on the charm.  He can’t get a word out before Ginger crosses the room and throws a fist into his gut.  Then the other two join in.

 

Daryl turns to the woman who has stalled in the hallway behind him.

 

“Go out the back!” he shouts at her. "Go on!"

 

She turns and runs.  He wants to do the same, but that’s his brother.  His blood…

 

He can’t.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks later when the dust has settled, and the scuffle she witnessed at the butcher’s seems like a scene out of someone else’s life, she pulls the package of deer meat out of her freezer to thaw in the sink.  The thought of eating it sends the contents of her stomach halfway up her throat, but Ed insists she make a roast for him for dinner.

The thick butcher paper has been precicely folded and taped at the edges.  The care taken surprises her.  It’s hard to reconcile it with the gruff man she’s met twice now - and hopes to never see again.

  
When the paper is pulled off and folded neatly it's apparent to her that it doesn’t look like a roast at all.  In fact, it looks like a package of white flour wrapped in plastic.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter really kicked my butt. I didn't intend for it to take months to update, but stuff and thangs happen. Thanks to Steph and Laura for the super helpful suggestions and for their patience while I whined about getting this written. You are the best. And thanks for the truly overwhelming response to chapter one! 
> 
> As always, feedback of any kind is appreciated.


	3. A deal is struck.

Daryl blames Merle.

 

“Let me process this.  You stashed your fucking dope in my freezer and you didn’t think to tell me?”

Merle blames Daryl.  

“You lost that bitch’s number and your pea brain don’t remember her last name?  Maybe if you cleaned up this fucking pig sty!”  

There’s a lot of yelling, and throwing of arms.  A brief scuffle ends with torn shirts and a few more bruises to add to the ones they got courtesy of Ginger and his people.  Ultimately, it doesn’t matter who’s to blame because the shit they’re in keeps piling up, and bickering over who caused the shitstorm won’t change the facts.  

Carol is gone.  The drugs are gone.  Merle has to get them back to Ginger, or hand over $50,000 cash.  Either way they’re running out of time.  The reminders get less gentle every passing day.  They’ll be dead by the end of the month at this rate.  Merle can’t wrap his head around how it all went wrong.  He explains the plan to Daryl over and over, like repeating it will change things.  He was going to cut the dope and sell half to the Bandidos for crystal, pocket the extra profits himself, and still get Ginger his drugs.  Everybody would win, at least that was the pipe dream.

Daryl does his best to convince him that they ought to just pick up and leave - the shop is mostly a front anyway, they can start fresh somewhere, they’ve done it before -  but Merle won’t hear of it.  He can’t let go of the dream.

“No reason to skeedaddle just yet.  We’re gonna get it back,” he vows, staring off into the distance like he can see the future.  

They rip through every package in the freezer until there are piles of defrosting meat dripping blood onto the paper on the front counter, just to make sure.  And when the cold realization that he handed over five pounds of coke to a housewife settles over him, Daryl feels so goddamn stupid and powerless the feelings transform into fury.  He thinks of her fragility, her timidness, and seethes.  She was an idiot for walking into a place surrounded by choppers covered in swastikas.  Blaming her is effortless, even though he knows deep down that it is not her fault any more than it is his.  She had looked fucking terrified.

Daryl does most of the grunt work, slamming heavy frozen packages on the counter for Merle to slice open and check.  Merle’s right hand is out of commission, tucked up close to his chest in a sling after Ginger dislocated his shoulder and broke two of his fingers.  No amount of raging and bucking loosened the hold that Gilligan and Skipper had on Daryl, so he had no choice but to watch the whole thing play out like a bad horror movie.  Listen to the sickening crack of bone wrenched from socket, until they were finally left to writhe and bleed on the floor while the sound of the bikes faded into the distance.  

Merle’s face turned from green to white when Daryl did his best to jam the arm back into place and set the fingers with splints made from willow branches, toilet paper, and duct tape.  It wasn’t a pretty patch job - Merle screamed bloody murder in between slugs of whiskey to chase the Oxy he popped like Tic Tacs to dull the pain - but they couldn’t afford a trip into town to the hospital.  Too many questions they couldn’t answer.  They sure as shit didn’t have an extra grand or two lying around for the honour of being graced by the presence of some poxy, condescending asshole in a white coat.

Between visits from Ginger, and one from the Bandidos that had them hiding out in the woods for two nights, the shop is trashed.  Pebbles of broken glass from the truck windows litter the gravel driveway.  The screen door is knocked off its hinges, its screen torn to shreds.  Some of the deer heads have been ripped from the walls or used for shooting practice.  Even the smoke shed has been raided, and weeks worth of carefully tended meat is stuffed into leather side satchels on bikes, or burnt.  

At least they left the knives - thrown into the wall panelling, and the mattress of Daryl’s cot in his cramped bedroom.  And Merle, he just laughs and cracks jokes about how his little brother’s bed has never seen so much action.  The camper trailer is left untouched.  Apparently it was already trashed up to the skinhead’s standards.

Even if they get the drugs back, the health inspector is coming next week.  They’re finished.  It’s over.

“How much longer we gonna sit on our asses waitin on them to finish the job?” he mutters, yanking a cleaver out of the wall.

Merle adjusts the knots on the apron he’s using as a sling and winces. “As long as it takes.”

* * *

 

Carol blames herself.

If she hadn’t been in such a daze she wouldn’t have set foot in the butcher shop that day.  If she had been a few seconds faster backing out of the door she could have escaped.  If she wasn’t so scared she would have called the police the second she got home.  He threatened her with that message scrawled on the wall.  The men in leather were scary, but so was he with those wild eyes and blood seeping from his temple.

Even before she realized that illegal drugs had been sitting in her deep freezer in the basement she was afraid that Daryl and his brother might come after her just to make sure she was keeping quiet.  She even considered telling Ed about it, but quickly dismissed the idea when she considered the consequences.

What surprises her is how calmly she replaces the butcher paper and covers up the drugs like she is wrapping a birthday present.  Her hands don’t even shake when she tapes down the folds and carries it back downstairs to the freezer, hiding it under pie crusts she prepared for the church bake sale.

On the car ride to the grocery store she thinks of which cut of meat she can buy with the money she stashes in the sugar canister that might resemble deer - at least enough to fool Ed.  Lamb? Beef?  He’s still at work, thank god.  If she gets home and gets cooking no one will be the wiser.

The cashier has to ask her for the money in her hand twice before Carol hears her.  For a second she thinks her guilt must show on her face the way the woman is looking at her.  Does she know that I have cocaine in my basement?

It makes her heart pound, and she feels an answering pulse low in her belly.

She drives home on autopilot, stopping at red lights and leaf strewn crosswalks, watching people go about their day, but all she sees are those eyes.

He must have known what he was doing, what he was getting her into.  For a fleeting moment she’s angry that he used her as a pawn in his dangerous drug deal.  He’s made her an accessory.  If she calls the police now they’ll question her involvement.  After all, she’s been in possession of the drugs for two weeks.  She could have a criminal record by now.  

Another thought hits her as she pulls into her driveway.

Why haven’t they tried to get them back?

She thinks on it when she unloads the groceries onto the kitchen counter and folds the paper bags.  Maybe they really don’t know she has them?  If that’s the case, it’s only a matter of time before they figure it out.  She glances hastily over at the answering machine, but there are no messages.  

Of course they know.  They’re criminals.

Maybe they lost her number?  Carol scoffs to herself.  It wouldn’t be impossible given the state of the paperwork in that place.  If that’s the case, they’ll probably try looking her up in the phone book, but Ed’s is the only name that’s listed.  She wracks her brain trying to remember if she ever used Ed’s name in front of Daryl…

Maybe they want her to hang on to them for safekeeping?  That seems plausible.  Who would think to look here?

Then another horrible possibility occurs to her that makes her nearly drop the roasting pan on the way to the oven.  Maybe they’re dead.

For some reason it’s this revelation that starts her quaking.  She manages to set the timer before finding herself on her knees rummaging through china cabinet in the dining room, looking for something to steady her nerves.  Apart from some early days in college before she dropped out, she leaves the drinking to Ed.  In behind the matching tea cups and saucers is half a mickey of scotch left over from Christmas.

The scraping sound of the cap twisting off the bottle brings her back.  What is she doing? What about the baby?

She sits heavily on the hardwood floor, her back leaning against the dining room chair with the wonky leg from the time that Ed knocked it over trying to get at her, and then the tears come.  The drugs in her freezer, the life growing inside her that Ed still doesn’t know about, all her mistakes, the shame and the fear.  

The fear.  

It’s paralyzing.

Carol’s helplessness is overwhelming, and then she’s furious. She gets on her feet and slams the cabinet door closed with her knee, blinks hard and wipes her face with her sleeve.  It’s not enough.  She knocks the dining room chairs over, one after the other, then storms into the kitchen and shatters two coffee cups on the tile.

“God dammit!”

It erupts out of her before she can stop it.  Outside, the mail carrier waves to her at the end of the drive.  She plasters on a smile and waves back.  This isn’t the time or place for a mental breakdown.  

She surveys the damage, feeling oddly calmer.  Grabbing a cutting board and the bag of carrots from the crisper she starts chopping.  Get the carrots on, and the potatoes, then sweep, and put the dining room back to rights.  He’ll be home soon.  Stop feeling it and think.

Carol is no expert on drugs, but if re-runs of Law and Order have taught her anything it’s that the innocent looking package downstairs is worth something.  Maybe a lot.  Maybe enough to start over.  Get away from Ed, and give this baby a chance.  

If they’re dead they’re not going to miss the drugs.  She stops chopping and stares at the grain of the wood on the cupboard in front of her.  An unfamiliar warmth washes over her.  It feels a little like hope.

The feeling doesn’t last once she starts working out the logistics in her head.  She is nothing if not logical.  Even if the drugs are valuable she has no idea where she’d go to sell them, or to whom.  Sure, Ed has a few buddies who get high when they’re out hunting - all the wives know, but she can hardly go to them for advice.  If she is caught, by her husband or the police, she will be facing consequences she can’t fathom - blows raining down on her body in an endless torrent,  charges much harsher than possession.  She imagines giving birth in a prison with her hands cuffed to the bed, and shakes her head.

None of this matters.  If they’re alive they’re going to want the drugs back.

She takes a deep breath through her nose and closes her eyes.

“Lord, help me find a way out of this.  I know I am weak and undeserving of your mercy, but this baby… I need to find a way.”

* * *

 

Daryl dreams he is a fawn.

He is clumsy and awkward, picking his way silently through the trees in search of food.  It’s early morning, cold and foggy.  There is no sound but the snapping of twigs and shriveled leaves under his feet.  A man appears from the shadows with his daddy’s hands, and Ginger’s face.  He sees the rifle too late.  There’s nowhere to run, he’s too slow, too weak.  Pain pulses, blossoming from his side and stretching out through his body until the sky tilts and he’s falling.  Merle laughs, low and guttural, and the sound morphs into the crunch of gravel under tires.

He wakes with a start, sitting upright on the floor of Merle’s camper and shoving off the damp wool blanket he used to keep out the night chill.  His brother is already up, pulling his pistol out from under his musty pillow with his good hand.  Weak light filters in from the slats of the windows.  He motions for quiet and points outside, putting his back to the wall and his gun to his chest, peering out to the driveway from the corner of his eye.  Daryl reaches a hand up to his crossbow, perched on the shallow sink, and tenses, listening hard.  If they’re going to go out, they’ll go out together, taking a stand.

There’s a vehicle coming up the road.  Only one from the sounds of it.  

Daryl shifts into a crouch by the door, feeling the crack in his ribs and the aches of his battered body.  He’s getting too old for this.

The vehicle slows on its approach, and Merle leans to get a closer look.  Daryl waits, watching him.  Maybe it’s the cops - that would just be perfect.

Then the strangest thing happens.  Merle tilts his head back against the window and smirks.

“Who is it?”

“Our ticket, brother.”

Daryl raises his head enough to see out the screen at the top of the door.  It’s Carol climbing out of that same shitty yellow station wagon he dragged the fawn out of a few weeks ago, back when life was a hell of a lot simpler.  He’s not sure if she’s brave or stupid for coming back here.

She looks exhausted, more gaunt than he remembers, hunching her shoulders in her red cardigan, clutching her purse with both hands and picking her way through the broken glass in her sandals to survey the damage to the shop.  

Merle tucks the gun in the back of his jeans and pushes past him, kicking the door open with a bang.  Daryl follows, leaving the crossbow behind.  No sense scaring her.  He can practically see the gears shifting in Merle’s head.  Bikers are one thing, but a housewife?  She’s easy pickings.  

Carol whirls around, but makes no move towards her car.  She squares her shoulders, forcing them down from her ears, and stares at the two of them with cold clear eyes.  It throws Daryl off guard, this edge he’s never seen from her before.  She looks pissed.

“Mornin, sugar.  Nice of you to pay us a visit.”

“Don’t call me sugar,” she blurts out, giving them a once over and taking in the sling, the black eyes, and split lip.  Daryl can only imagine the sight they make.  “You know why I’m here.”

“You oughta be more polite to a man with a gun.”

Sure enough, Merle’s pulled out his weapon, pointing it towards the ground.  Carol blanches all the same, eyes wide, and reaches into her purse.  

“That’s right, sweetheart.  You just hand it over and we’ll forget this whole thing.”

Daryl puts his hands up to stop all this craziness before it spins even more out of control.  He turns to his brother and hisses near his ear.  “What the fuck, Merle!?”

A shot rings out in the air, shattering the stillness around them and scaring the crows from the trees.  The look on Merle’s face is enough for Daryl to understand that he’s not the one who pulled the trigger.

To his complete shock, Carol stands with a .38 special pointed right at them, her arm trembling slightly and her lips pressed to a thin line.

“Drop it,” she says, breathing hard through her nose.

“Alright, alright,” Merle says, letting his gun hit the ground and raising his good hand.  He’s not grinning anymore.  He tries again. “How about we have ourselves a little pow wow?  See if we can’t work this out.”

With her pistol still trained on Merle she turns her attention to Daryl, accusation in her eyes.  It makes him bristle.  Can’t she see he’s trying to help?

“Did you know?”

“Listen lady, why don’t you put that down before you hurt somebody?”  He takes a cautious step closer, approaching her like a wild animal.

She points the gun at him and he puts both hands up.

“I said, did you know?  Did you know what was in that package?”

“No.  I didn’t.”

Did she think he got her involved on purpose? Jesus.

Carol stares so hard at him he swears she’s looking right through him.  Then she takes it in, and her gaze turns inward while she considers his words, lowering the gun slightly.  Merle exchanges a look with him.  It’s clear he wants to take her down while she’s distracted, it wouldn’t take much, but Daryl shakes his head once slowly.

“W-why didn’t you contact me to get it back?”  Her voice wavers and betrays her.  

“Shit-for-brains lost your number,” Merle interjects.  “Didn’t remember your last name neither.”

He is so done with this bullshit, and turns on his brother. “Wouldn’t need to know it if you kept your coke out of my shop,” he barks back.

“You gonna keep bitchin’ about it, or what?”

“You best shut the hell up!”

“Stop it!” she shouts, but the gun is aimed at the ground. “Stop it! Both of you!”

Daryl runs a hand down his face.  How the fuck did he get here?  He’s tired of dancing around this woman.  She needs to leave, and he needs a smoke.  He chances another step forward.  Carol raises the pistol at him, startled.  Now Daryl’s the one who’s pissed.

“You gonna shoot me? I’m unarmed! This is my fuckin’ property!”

“He’s right, you know.  How ‘bout we call the cops, baby brother? Let them sort this all out.”

 

Merle’s bluffing, but he gets a response just the same.  Carol’s chin trembles, but her grip on her weapon stays firm.  Daryl recognizes desperation when he sees it.

“You’re the drug dealers,” she retorts.  She says it like they’re dog shit.

“That may be true, darlin - but you’re the one with the drugs.  It’s our word against yours.”

Daryl can see her turning this over.  Her eyes well up even as she glares at them.  This is the woman he recognizes, but there’s something harder about her now.  She didn’t drive out here by herself packing heat in her purse without a good reason.  

“What do you want? Huh?”

She blinks back tears and lowers the gun.

“Money.”

Merle laughs bitterly.  “Ain’t that true for us all.”

“I know it’s worth something.”

“It ain’t worth nothing to you.”  Merle is right.

Carol nods.  “I know.  That’s why I’m here.  I need money. Fast.  A lot of it.  It can’t be traced back to me.”

Daryl sees the yellow bruises fading on her wrists and thinks of the man who tortured a fawn for sport.  Then everything clicks into place.  Maybe she’s trying to leave the bastard.  Maybe she is more brave than stupid.

Merle spreads one arm out, gesturing to the destruction around them.  “It look like we got a pile of Benjamin’s laying around here somewhere?  Brother, gas up my Ferrari!  Think I’ll take it for a spin before I count the gold.”

Carol doesn’t care for Merle’s sarcasm.

“You will have money, once you sell it.  Or I can leave now, and you won’t see me or your drugs again.”  Her jaw is set.  “I’m supposed to be at church.  If I’m not back home in the next hour someone will come looking.”

She’s thought this through, even though she’s being a huge pain in the ass.  He’ll give her that.  One look in her eyes tells Daryl she’s not lying, but Merle scoffs, and spits on the ground.  He won’t risk being taken for a fool.

“Don’t piss in my ear and tell me it’s raining.”

Carol doesn’t say anything, waiting for his response.  And Merle? He’s actually considering her.  Assessing the validity of her threat.  It’s silent again while the three of them turn it all over.  Rats in a trap.

“Here’s the thing, Calamity Jane: I can get you some cash, but it’s gonna take time.  In the meantime, what you gonna give me in return?  Ain’t nobody in this world get something for nothing.”

Merle’s voice goes low and mocking at the end.  Carol blushes and stammers.  Did he wink at her?  “You’re getting your drugs back.  Isn’t that enough?”

Daryl glares at Merle - whatever he’s scheming it can’t be good - but he’s not about to argue now that guns aren’t being waved around in front of his face.  

“That wasn’t what I was thinkin, but if you wanna bump uglies we can head on back to my trailer.”

She scowls.  “What were you thinking?”

Daryl is wondering the same thing.  They couldn’t possibly need anything from this woman except the drugs and her silence.  Merle smirks again.  He doesn’t like it.

“Health inspector’s comin’ by next week.  We get shut down and there ain’t no way for me to move my product, which means you don’t get your money, and we’re as good as dead - it won’t make a lick of difference how many times you point that pea shooter at my head.”

He wiggles his bum arm in his sling, displaying the duct tape bandages.  “I ain’t exactly up to the job myself.”

Carol puts the safety back on the gun and slides it back in her bag, still keeping her distance and her eyes on Merle.  He does his best to put his left hand over his heart.

“You help us clean up this dump and pass inspection and, my hand to God, I’ll give you all the cash you need.”

He’s got to hand it to Merle - this isn’t the worst idea he’s ever had.

She looks around the property to the ruins around them and Daryl rolls his eyes.  Merle is a charming snake, there’s no doubt.  If she’s got any sense left in her head she’ll get out now before it’s too late.  

 

Her eyes flit from the ground to Merle’s face, unsure.  “I have some conditions.”

Oh, fuck.

Merle chuckles.  “Well ain’t you just full of surprises.”

Carol isn’t laughing.  “I can only come during the day for a few hours at a time.  No one can know I’m coming here.  I mean it.  No one.”

“Alright, alright.  Ain’t like your preacher’s gonna be dropping by for sweet tea.”

Carol nods.

“We got ourselves a deal?”

“Deal.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my dear NotLaura for being the best ever and taking precious time from her Saturday to beta this for me. I'm anxious to hear what you all think about this one...

**Author's Note:**

> As always comments and constructive feedback are more than welcome. I'm new to AO3, so bring it on.


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